I’s staying in a really nice place. I’m not paying rent. I’m a “guest”. I see snow and bears and sunsets. I have my own space where I can work. My hosts feel guilty about not entertaining me more, while I feel great about getting things done. My hostess (we’ll call her Leza) recently asked if I was gong to be around mid-June to take care of the cat while they traveled. She was disappointed when I said I thought I should be going in another week or so.
There may be an ulterior motive at work here. Yesterday when I got home from a writing session (did you see just then how natural it was to say home?) and “Leza” asked – and I’m dead quoting here – “Would you be interested in a little girl?”
I was caught off guard by that one, I’ll tell you. I honestly thought for the tiniest fraction of a second that she was hoping I would adopt a little girl. The thought passed quickly, because no one would be so stupid as to entrust me with the upbringing of a child all on my own. It turns out that the “Little Girl” is Leza’s age (I can not, will not, even take a guess at that. She’s either younger than I am, or not.), and is perhaps freakishly small. So now I face the slightly lesser peril of being set up.
As a bit of background, it must be said that stories get bigger when Leza tells them. She is a storyteller at heart. I have stood by, bemused, as I hear her tell her husband (we’ll call him ‘Mark’) some minor story I told her. She can make the simplest thing sound dramatic. I wish I had that talent, and I’d wager she doesn’t even realize what she has.
Anyway, after clearing up the ‘little girl’ confusion, Leza explained to me that she had run into a friend of hers who thought I sounded ‘really nice’. So, I hear from Leza that, based on what she has told her friend about me, her friend thinks I’m nice. We’ll pass for the moment on the fact that Leza’s friend might have called me any name in the book and that would not affect what I heard back from Leza. What worries me most is what Leza told her friend. While it is likely based on fact, that still leaves a lot of room for poetic license.
So there’s a bunch of us getting together for some kind of musing thing Friday evening. I had been thinking about bolting for Bozeman this week, since the paying gig is in a lull, but I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. So now I get to see the look on some woman’s face as she realizes the gulf between what she’s been told and what I can deliver. After that it’s Bozeman, baby, Bozeman. I’m starting to yearn for the big spaces.
Be prepared, in case you end up in loco parentis upon short notice.
Our will says you and Triska are young Gerald’s guaridans should we bite the bullet. We were planning to change the will, but the unfortunate demise of our lawyer has changed that.
He had leukemia, and he was caught at a Border Patrol checkpoint with a large quantity of marijuana, which he claimed was for personal use, but which the authorities decided was a much greater quantity than was reasonable for personal use.
He posted bail, and three hours later was found dead in his home, naked in the bathroom, strangled by a wet towel twisted around his neck. The state medical examiner ruled it an “accidental death.”
Um, excuse me, if a guy dies by a towel twisted around his neck, that sounds like either a suicide or a homicide, not an accidental death.
They are scared to admit it was the squirrels.
I think Gerald is the one who should be worried. Suddenly having me as a guardian would be frightening indeed.